


Amnesia and Déjà Vu

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:28:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27838372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: A rough encounter with the enemy has the team leader struggling with a severe case of amnesia.  Who 'Lieutenant Garrison' was, is - with a little help, that came back to him rather quickly.  But figuring out who 'Craig Garrison' was?  That wasn't quite so easy.(Inspired by a Steven Wright quote about "Right now I'm having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time; I think I've forgotten this before.")
Kudos: 3





	Amnesia and Déjà Vu

He'd gone out on one of those solo missions the team groused about him taking on. They'd protested him heading off on his own, as they always did when it happened, but as he sternly reminded them (as he always did), "orders are orders. I have mine, you have yours. Listen to Rawlins, and if you get sent out with another crew before I get back, behave yourselves! In fact, whether you get sent out or not, STILL behave yourselves! I don't want to come back and have to bail you out, get it?". 

There had been a long pause, then an addendum. "And, guys? Take care of each other and stay alive," he'd said in a gruffly embarrassed voice. 

He patiently listened to them grumping, warning him that without them along to keep him out of trouble, one of these days he'd go out and not come back. He took it well, knowing they worried about him just like he worried about them. But he knew what he was doing, was a professional, he assured them. No, there were no guarantees, but he was better qualified than anyone else on the roster right now for this particular job. He HAD to go.

Well, yeah, they got it, but they still didn't like it. They all agreed, Garrison could walk into trouble even faster than any of them could, and they figured his chances of walking out unscathed were a lot less without them around to lend a hand. Each of them had ladled out the advice, the admonitions, all wrapping their rather sheepish display of warmth and worry in an envelope best suited to each man's own nature - gruff, warm, restrained, fierce, whatever.

So, he'd gone out on a solo mission. 

They'd continued with training, then had managed a job with Ainsley that went down without a hitch. Well, they knew Ainsley and his guys; Ainsley knew them, respected their skills, knew a little about their quirks - it was a better fit than some might have been.

Then, they tackled another job with some half-way competent Army Ranger named Frisco. Man had an attitude, but seemed to know his job better than some they'd dealt with, enough they all got back a little battered but more or less in one piece anyway. Of course, that was more to their credit than Frisco's, not that the official report was likely to make note of that.

They'd got their part of the job done without a hitch, which was more than could be said about the man in charge, who'd managed to blow a simple con through what Casino termed "a dumbass, amateur move that the Warden woulda yelled the roof down if one of us had pulled it!". They felt a little superior about pulling his nuts out of the fire. Well, they figured Garrison would have expected them to. They didn't even get a thank you.

They'd thought about doing a little shopping for the retirement fund while waiting around inside that bigshot's house in Lyon, but remembered Garrison's admonishments and refrained. Goniff even put back that pretty little silver music box he'd picked up before heading out the door. Well, not only wouldn't Garrison approve, but the ruddy thing kept chiming out at the wrong times and that Frisco bloke would probably get wise eventually, he figured. After all, MOST pockets didn't go around playing 'Fur Elise'.

Sure enough, Frisco had patted them down before they went in for the debriefing; the guys took it in fairly good spirits, only Chief giving a silent snarl at the over-familiarity, and Frisco found nothing of note. That joking remark from Casino, about what Frisco was looking around for and where Casino kept it but usually just for the dames, that remark had all of them laughing, but brought them all a severe frown from their temporary leader. Oh well, not like they'd likely be working with Frisco again, not if Garrison got his rear back to the team like he was supposed to.

"Guy's okay, ya know, except for not having a sense of humor and not knowing shit about pulling a con. OR knowing when to say 'thanks'. He's got a hell of a long way to go to be the Warden, that's for sure," Casino opined, glancing through the stack of notes he was helping Actor put together for Garrison when the man got back. Chief and Goniff were worrying over the maps, trying to fill in the changes, but lightly and in pencil, not sure Garrison would want them monkeying with his 'babies' with anything more permanent.

"Think 'e's gonna 'ave to get a new batch pretty soon," Goniff said thoughtfully, holding the heavy paper up at a slant, squinting to read the prior markings before carefully adding his own. "This 'as been changed so much, it's starting to get 'ard to tell the mountains from the rivers." He was right; the folds were even starting to crack through in places. Much more and they'd look more like a puzzle than a map.

Chief nodded, half in amusement at that serious tone from someone not noted for being serious. "Yeah, if we're gonna bail out of a plane, it'd be nice to know which is waiting down below."

Casino snarked, "what, Indian? You wanting to know whether to pack your swim trunks or not? Ya never heard of skinny-dipping?"

Rawlins had been a little taken aback at their swift action in regards to the paperwork, but was touched, fully intended to let Garrison know how much help they'd been. Between them helping him with the official report and working on the notes and maps, Garrison should be well pleased. Of course, that 'official report' wouldn't be going anywhere except into the file after Garrison took a good look, and it wouldn't be labeled as such. The REAL 'official report' would be for the commanding officer, that Ranger, to take care of, and Rawlins knew Garrison would be wanting to see that one as well. But how the mission went down from his guys' point of view, that was important too, and something Garrison always took due note of. Well, that was only smart, looking at both parts, the non-com knew. Rawlins had become accustomed to the differences between the 'official' story and the REAL story, and sometimes those differences were vast in nature, even without any nonsense the guys might have gotten up to.

But, as the guys self-righteously told Rawlins, they HADN'T gotten up to any nonsense. Of course, they phrased it differently when discussing it among themselves. "Well, we didn't get up to any nonsense - nothing much, anyhow". Oh, there was that lady's ring, emerald, nice quality but of a lighter color than most, square cut and set into heavy gold, worth a tidy sum. Just the right size to fit in the gap at the back of his jaw too, so Frisco hadn't come across it. Goniff had handed that over rather sheepishly at the Common Room table when they'd gotten settled in again. 

"Didn't even notice it getting in my pocket, guys, really, til we were already at the door. Pretty green color, though; reminded me . . . By the way, Rawlins 'ear anymore about when the lieutenant might be back?" 

That segue was telling; that the emerald was a good match for Garrison's green eyes was noted; but no one teased Goniff about it. It just wouldn't have been any fun, not as anxious as their friend was about their absent lieutenant. They didn't scold about that ring either; they knew how sometimes things DID just find their way to Goniff's pockets, often without his conscious knowledge, surprising him as much as anyone else when they showed up.

That Garrison wasn't back yet when they got back, that had them all more than a little worried, enough that celebratory trip to the pub was far more subdued than usual, an event worthy of comment by Jake, one of the two bartenders.

The call from London the next day, the one saying he HAD come back, that had them relaxing just a little, til they heard the rest; but then the subsequent worried explanation from Sergeant Major Rawlins racheted things up again. 

Yes, he'd come back. At least physically he'd come back, a little battered but alive and moving. But only a small part of his memory had come back with him, and where the rest of it was, when it might return, no one really knew. 

"Back, but not in such good shape from w'at I 'ear," the non-com had told them in a somber tone. "Seems 'e took a good clunk to the 'ead, along with some else. Not thinking right, at least, not remembering things too clear, from w'at I'm being told, though I'm not given much in the way of details. No, we're to stay put til they tell us otherwise. Way I 'ear it, once 'e's released from the med unit, we can pick 'im up, let 'im recover 'ere. Now, I expect you lads will be going out with someone else in the meantime, and no nonsense from any of you. 'E don't need that on top of everything else. Seems us, here, all of it - that's all part of w'at 'e's not remembering. Don't make it worse."

It was an incredulous story, one they had a hard time believing.

"How the hell could he not remember US?" Casino asked, heavy frown on his face. The concern was evident, there and with the rest of the guys, and Goniff looked more than a little stricken. {"Don't remember us? Don't remember, 'ere, all of it. Does that mean 'e don't remember the Cottage, 'Gaida - any of that??! 'E don't remember me?? Ruddy 'ell!"}. 

They'd shaken their heads, though, accepting, not having any other choice; also knowing that, however unlikely, if it could have happened to anyone, it would have been their lieutenant. 

According to Rawlins, he'd burrowed his way into position with an impressive display of charm, skill, arrogance and superbly forged papers; he'd gotten the information he was after, relayed it safely on by way of the designated drop, but a fluke of fate had led to his discovery on his way out. It seems he'd had a rough time of it from his captors, a concussion not helping matters any. For anyone else, it would probably have been the end, probably would have just disappeared into the cold cell he'd been thrown into, then into an even colder grave. 

In fact, it almost was the end. The beating had been severe, the questioning harsh and unrelenting. It had taken all of Garrison's will to push any valuable information to the back of his mind, back into that little room with the locks on the door, where he kept things that were too important to 'discuss in present company'. That room got a lot of use, and the shuttling away of information now was almost automatic, though the contents varied depending on circumstances. This time, almost EVERYTHING was stuffed in there, just in case, and just in time. It was close, though. He almost hadn't made it, barely starting to slam and latch that door when a hard blow to his head made him lose his focus. The last thought before his consciousness fled was "did I get it closed tight enough, or not?" Actually, it was not quite closed, but almost - just a spare inch or two of room for a stray thought to wiggle out if it really tried. 

Then, the questioning started up again, with the guard even more determined when it seemed the answers he was getting made even less sense than before. Finally, the burly man looked at the limp form in the chair with disgust, decided he might as well go get something to eat, maybe sleep a couple of hours before starting up again. Next go around, he was SURE he'd make the man talk sense.

But this was Garrison, the man capable of any number of surprises. The far too competent and brutal guard who'd been in charge for the past ten hours was replaced by a new one, one who was still deeply hungover from his leave. It would be the only chance for escape, the prisoner knew that. The heavy-fisted guard had just been softening him up, would return with renewed energy and resolve in probably only a few hours.

Actually, after the condition Garrison was in from that FIRST round, he was surprised he'd managed that hard blow to the windpipe, then the one to the bridge of the relief guard's nose, driving the shards of bone back into the unlucky man's brain. He'd grabbed the keys from the man's belt, along with the revolver, then staggered out into the night air and into the darkness, the ringing of alarmed voices and shots following behind him. 

Eluding his pursuers hadn't been easy, but he'd managed, though it involved swimming across a filthy canal and crawling through a no-less-dirty alley or two. 

By then, his memory was flickering in and out, enough he wasn't always aware of who he was hiding from, only that he was and must continue to avoid detection. That it was IMPORTANT, that he had someplace else he needed to be, that he was expected somewhere, though he couldn't have told you where exactly. 

That door to his hidden memories was jammed tight, open barely a fraction of an inch, not relaxing enough to let much of anything through, just enough to get him to a rendezvous point where the contact had taken one look and arranged for immediate transport back to London. Well, it would have been obvious to anyone that Craig Garrison was going to be out of commission, at least for awhile. At least til he could stand on his own two feet. And at least til he remembered who the hell he was.

The first had been the easier part. The med unit was efficient enough and, for a change, wasn't so busy as to be giving him the usual perfunctory treatment for his physical injuries. For the rest, the persistent and broad-scope memory loss, he'd cautiously accepted the assurances of his caregivers as to who he was, "Lieutenant Craig Garrison, Special Forces Team Leader", had read the file that had been provided to him so that he could become better acquainted with the man who usually wore that battered frame stretched out in the hospital bed. None of it sounded familiar, but it didn't sound WRONG, so he relaxed his suspicions somewhat.

He'd had a visitor or two or three while in hospital - a Major Kevin Richards, two men named Reynolds and Ainsley, fellow Team Leaders supposedly. There was another, Micah Davis, possibly another Team Leader, but Garrison had such a headache from the man's booming voice and the struggle to untangle and understand the Australian accent and cant, he wasn't sure. He didn't recognize any of them, but they seemed to know him, were cheerfully encouraging, probably on orders from the doctor, assuring him "it's just a matter of giving yourself some time."

And there had been a surreptitious visit by five men - a Sergeant Major Rawlins and the four men who supposedly made up the team Garrison himself led. At least Garrison thought it was surreptitious from the quick furtive looks around as they'd slipped through the door, the repeated warnings of "shhhhhhh!" and the "keep it down, someone's gonna hear us" and a little later "you don't keep quiet, they're gonna know we're here and kick us out!" 

There was a flicker of something, perhaps a partial memory, at the sight of them making their way cautiously through the door and gathering so eagerly around him, but Garrison knew his subdued reaction was a disappointment to those men seemingly so glad to see him. Part of him felt that disappointment keenly, wanted to alleviate it somehow, a feeling that hadn't been there for his previous visitors.

{"I'd try and fake it, just to make them feel better, I think, but I don't really know what they're expecting from me. And besides, I get the feeling faking it would just be wrong, with these men, anyway."}. 

He had a feeling, though he didn't have a clue where that feeling was coming from, that they'd know, and their disappointment would only be greater. 

{"I think they'd be hurt, even, like I was lying to them."}. 

There was already a hint of that, the hurt, in their eyes, especially with the slender blond man who kept hovering right at his elbow, fidgeting, fetching him a drink of water, reading the chart both right side up and upside down, doing this, doing that, til Garrison gently slapped that helpful hand away when it tried to tuck the blanket a little closer around him. The hurt flared then, then disappeared behind suddenly shuttered blue eyes, and Garrison winced inside, ashamed of himself for letting his nerves get the better of him in the face of such obvious concern. Now that the blond, Goniff by name, carefully stepped back behind the others, well out of arms' reach, Garrison found he sort of missed that solicitious fretting.

Then he was back at what he was told was his base of operations. Things should be improving, but he still couldn't remember, not enough, damn it! At first he'd just accepted what the military doctor had told him, that if it was important, it'd come back to him, maybe not all at once, but gradually. 

And it had started to, or so it seemed. In rapid order he'd remembered the team, the four men who'd been waiting for him at that big house they called the Mansion. Not everything, but some. He remembered that they were cons. Not him, of course, but those four men who'd looked so pleased at his return, then quietly disappointed when he'd looked at them with such unknowing eyes. He remembered, soon, that this was a rather off-beat idea that was working out remarkably well, enough even the boffins at HQ were grudgingly surprised. Hell, thinking about it now, HE was surprised such a crazy idea had worked so well, and knew he'd be glad when he remembered enough to have a better notion as to how and why it was working.

Then he started to remember the guys, their talents, their quirks, the nonsense they could get up to. The comradeship that had grown to something far more akin to brotherhood. As he remembered, as they started to see him remembering, things started to relax, the atmosphere becoming more what Actor assured him was more the norm.

The team was sent out for a job, not long, just a week or so, with Team Leader Micah Davis, and Garrison spent the time at the Mansion relearning things he'd forgotten. Long sessions with Gil Rawlins helped, as did going through the files, going over the maps. He'd been touched when Rawlins showed him the newest annotations, told him how the guys had worked so hard in doing what had become Garrison's usual upon returning from any job. He reacquainted himself with the village, the local Constable Ben Miller, the Reverend Standish, and others. 

He'd puzzled over Rawlins' unthinking, "now, the O'Donnell miss, she's still out and about. Seems one of 'ers landed in a tar pit of sorts and she's one of those trying to pull them out. Should be back soon, though; she doesn't like to be away for longer than's needed, and she was some worried about you being out on your lonesome too. Well, with Goniff and the others so concerned, she would be, of course."

When he'd tried to ask more about that 'O'Donnell miss', Rawlins had flushed and declined to go on, saying something about being sorry, that he shouldn't have said anything, about him having his orders. Garrison knew about those orders, but wasn't sure he agreed with them, but let it drop.

He quickly remembered his sister, Lynn, though, welcoming her upon her arrival, returning her hug with enthusiasm. He had some memories now of his parents, his grandmother; memories of the place he'd grown up, back in the States, even some about one of his college professors. 

He wasn't too sure about some of those memories - some seemed even more off-beat than his current assignment. 

{"I mean, elves and fairies in the garden? Writing two, maybe three different papers for the various school assignments, each with a different view or a different slant? One for the teachers, one for the parents, and sometimes, one just for me? Does that make any sense? And why do I keep thinking of it as 'the place I grew up', or 'my parents' house', not 'home'?"}

From what he and Lynn discussed, though, even some of the more unpleasant things seemed accurate enough, though she didn't have much insight over some things that he'd never shared with her. That one face, an elderly man, a name 'Professor Milford' was one she'd only heard in passing, but seemed to loom far more importantly in the dim room at the back of Craig's mind. And the mysterious 'Uncle Jake' that kept popping up in his mind was someone Lynn disclaimed any knowledge of at all.

The guys were back, full of stories about the assignment, joking about some of the tall tales Micah Davis could come up with, some of the odd jargon they never HAD quite figured out. This time he met them with more ease, having learned more in their absence, had started getting flashes of memories, of jobs, of mischief, of saving each others' lives. Of him yelling, of them sometimes quick with the comebacks, other times just giving him one of those looks - inscrutable sometimes, other times sheepish or downright guilty.

Then they were gone again, this time with Alex Ainsley, and if Garrison didn't understand Ainsley's fervent "can't think of any lot better for THIS mess, but wish you were coming along, Garrison! No one has the same touch for keeping them in line that you do!" well, he accepted it as a compliment along with the plea to "tell them to BEHAVE themselves, will you, Garrison??! I don't have nerves of steel, you know!"

Again, as soon as they left, this time to the sight of him standing in the doorway, one hand raised in farewell, he got back to work. His memories were there, somewhere, and he was determined to pull them out, kicking and screaming if need be. Next time his guys went out, he wanted to be the one to lead them, not leaving that to someone else.

Soon, more and more came flooding back, even without his being consciously aware of the influx. Soon he was reaching for the right file, the right map that held his notes from a particular mission, so those memories were coming back. He remembered to skip that last cup of almost-coffee when he had his first opportunity to attend Sunday services in the village, knowing Reverend Standish DID tend to go on a bit. He remembered to resume those small payments down at the pub, not for past offenses by his team, but against future such offenses, remembering with wry acceptance that there would certainly BE such future offenses. Lou had just smiled, shrugged off Garrison's apologies for being so late with the envelope. "No problem, Lieutenant. We heard you were laid up. Knew you'd be along when you could. And they've been quiet recently, worrying about you, I think; nothing to add to the tab yet."

It had been a shock, discovering those stacks of sketchbooks filled with portraits, scenes, character studies. He'd hurried to put them in the order of the date lightly inscribed inside each cover, then spent hours with them, wondering at each page, at the ever-increasing detail and complexity displayed there. Yes, the sudden burst of recognition, at least to understanding these were his, his own work, was a pleasant surprise. But the depth of knowledge in each of those sketches, ever more so as the dates progressed, pointed to a level of perception, in many cases, a degree of personal connection that told him he simply SHOULD remember something more about anyone who seemed so important that he'd bothered to sketch that individual in the first place. 

Of course, there weren't all that many pictured other than his team, just a few.

He now recognized the elderly man in a tweed suit, pipe in hand, carefully labeled 'Professor Milford, the smartest man I ever knew' as his mentor in college before he headed off to West Point. He recognized the local constable, though who the elderly woman standing alongside a washtub and clothesline was, the one who looked like she knew the mysteries of the universe but wasn't sure you were worthy of her sharing them with you, he didn't know yet. A young woman, attractive though not beautiful, with an equally knowing look about her oddly detailed eyes. {"I wonder what color they are, and why I made it appear the irises are glittering!"}

His sister, the Sergeant Major, a few others were pictured there. But mostly what remained were of his men, and of those, more than any, of his pickpocket. There were actually entire sketchbooks devoted just to that one individual. Garrison could understand that; it seemed that one face could hold the most amazing diversity of expressions, so many it seemed impossible they all belonged to the same individual. 

{"I suppose that's why there are so many drawings; that I was trying to figure out which expressions were real, which ones only make-believe,"} he pondered. Surely they couldn't ALL be real, all part of the same personna; no one was THAT complex by nature.

He'd gone up to London for another mandated appointment, determined to ask the doctor about why he wasn't remembering more. More of the personal stuff. Memories about close friends, other than the people he worked with on a professional basis. More about, and he'd flushed at the necessity for asking, his more intimate relationships. 

"It seems the only place, the only times I remember feeling totally alive, like I BELONG, is when I was in the middle of the action. When I'm on a job, going up against the enemy, pulling off an assignment, training with my men. I mean, that's good, I suppose, that I feel confident about what I do, but there has to be more, doesn't there? People I'm comfortable with, want to be with outside the job; places that I can be more, be 'Craig', not 'Lieutenant Garrison'. Someone who knows me as 'Craig', someone who WANTS me to be just 'Craig'. Why don't I remember?! Why am I remembering the rest, but not THAT??!"

From the frown on the doctor's face, you'd have thought the man found the question rather insulting, as if Garrison had been blaming HIM for the continued lack of memories, like he'd not done his job properly. Perhaps that accounted for the response Garrison was given. In any case, the crisp answer from the impatient physician had been rather disheartening. 

"From what I gather, Lieutenant, it might not be a matter of not remembering, but more a matter of there not being all that much TO remember. From what I can tell from your file, from those I've spoken with, you are the epitome of a dedicated and skilled career military officer. While there are one or two items that point to past rufflings of the waters, they were not necessarily to your detriment, but seemed to have surfaced from your being perhaps overly-conscientious, stepping in to resolve a touchy situation when some might have turned aside. You are unmarried and left no committments behind you that we know of. The beneficiary on your military insurance is your sister. You abstain from any of the usual vices - you do not drink to excess, you do not gamble, you do not become involved in brawls, or, indeed, become involved in anything that would be a detriment to your responsibilities or your reputation. You appear to avoid any close relationships, either of the friendship category or the more intimate relationships with women, reputedly out of concern such might interfere with your duty, especially your current assignment, whatever that might be. Most admirable, I must admit, such committment, but not leaning toward more personal connections."

Garrison wasn't too sure about that; that description seemed to portray an oddly constricted sort of individual, one he wasn't too sure he wanted to be. It sounded rather hollow and chilly, and one at odds with the faint wisps of heated dreams that kept showing up in the middle of the night - dreams he could never seem to remember in the morning, any more than the overall impression of warmth and deep affection, and yes, passion. 

{"I guess, along with all the rest, I'm searching for memories of 'home', but I can't remember 'home', just vague impressions that don't seem to fit that description. I remember a house, yes, and faces that I think are my parents, but I don't remember 'home'! Damn it!"}. 

He hadn't spoken of that, not specifically, of not even remembering his home, anyone waiting for him there, and how that made him feel. That just seemed a little too much like a kid away at summer camp experiencing home-sickness, not something he intended to discuss with a military doctor.

Sensing his patient's discomfort with the idea that he actually HAD no personal life worth remembering, the doctor had forced himself to become a little more reassuring, offering a little encouragement for being patient, though issuing some strict orders as well.

"I'm not saying there AREN'T any relationships, mind you, Lieutenant, just that there would appear not to be, on the surface anyway. My professional advice? Much what I've directed your subordinates. Let it alone, let it come in time, at least the personal matters, though of course it is imperative that you regain any professional memories as soon as possible. 

"Still, don't try to force anything, Lieutenant Garrison, not in the personal realm. Don't press. Don't go around asking questions. Don't turn into a Sherlock Holmes trying to unravel a mystery that might not even exist. If there ARE any relationships of an important enough nature, I'm sure it will all come back to you in time."

The doctor had given a patently-false chuckle, an aloof smile no more genuine, and continued.

"Otherwise, perhaps you might look at it as an opportunity to rid yourself of any connections of lesser importance. After all, it's rather as if you are being given a second start, a chance to step back from any relationships that AREN'T sufficiently important to spark recognition, bring back memories. There are many men who'd jump at that chance, you know, to start with a clean slate in that department."

Garrison had left the office unsatisfied, maybe more so than when he'd gone in. Had he really gotten to his age without any important relationships, any romance of any importance, anything worth remembering? That seemed rather, well, pathetic, when you sat right down and thought about it. And the idea of casually discarding any existing but so far not-remembered relationships he might have, without even knowing what they involved, what potential might lay within, that seemed, well, careless, for lack of a better word. Or maybe the right word would be profligate.

{"Like someone getting an inheritance from an unknown relative and never even inquiring as to what and how much, just tossing it onto the table and gambling it away on a casual turn of the cards without ever knowing what was at stake."}

Still, there was progress. He was re-establishing some of the important ties with his men. 

A discussion of literature or art with Actor brought mutual satisfaction. While Actor seemed to be more the consummate expert there, Garrison was pleased to know he wasn't such a slouch himself. 

Listening to Casino give a soliloquy on his experiences with 'dames' stirred a dept of amusement he would never have guessed the subject could deliver, and those casual comments about the mob and wise guys displayed an enlightening familiarity with that world that opened up new avenues of understanding. 

A few shared chess games with Chief had been enlightening as well, especially finding he could sometimes only play to a draw and occasionally lost to a move he wouldn't have expected from the young man, an admitted beginner. Garrison no longer discounted that stoic look as a sign of either lack of interest or lack of knowledge, with chess or anything else - merely an indication of a bone-deep reserve born of harsh experience.

The hardest to pin down, the more elusive, was finding a connection to his pickpocket. It should have been easy, Goniff seeming the friendliest, the most approachable of the crew. He would catch occasional glances of deep concern, or find Goniff hovering just out of reach, but always there if Garrison needed anything. 

{"I know Casino calls him a mother hen, but this is like a mother hen with only one chick, that chick being me!"}. He wasn't sure that was something he approved of as the officer in charge, something he should encourage, and besides, he had a feeling he wasn't quite reading those looks or actions exactly right, so he refrained from any obvious rebuffs, at least for the time being. Cautious was better til he had a better grasp on the overall situation.

Considering that evident concern, though, you'd think Goniff would be willing, even eager to indulge Garrison in a serious conversation, maybe be more forthcoming than the others. But anytime Garrison tried, the smaller man seemed to startle and flush, would quickly demur and find somewhere else to be. 

That was highly disappointing. Despite the slim likelihood of his having much common ground with the impudent and, according to Actor, uneducated Cockney, Garrison somehow thought it would be pleasurable to spend some time just listening to that raspy voice, watching the expressions flicker and change over that mobile face. 

{"All those expressions captured in those sketchbooks! I'd like to see each one, for real, see how he manages each and under what circumstances."}

That had surprised him, of course, the level of interest, though he'd rationalized it away as simply a deep curiosity caused by those sketches.

However, when he'd found himself unaccountably smiling at some of Goniff's nonsense, (at a time when he'd found smiles to be few and far between) - when he found himself wishing those hazy blue eyes would actually MEET his, not slide away, he had to wonder. Once he'd even found himself starting to reach out with one finger to teasingly flick back that tousled hair after it had gotten rumpled in a laughing skirmish with Casino, only catching himself just in time to pull back after getting a wide-eyed look of shock from the pickpocket at his aborted gesture. Well, Goniff couldn't have been any more shocked than Garrison was.

He knew he needed answers, quickly, to any number of questions, before he started to drive himself totally around the bend. The problem was, who the hell was going to give him any answers? He considered broaching the subject, though tentatively, with the men, but somehow he thought they would each feel as skittish as Goniff was acting. {"And they'd probably think I'd lost my mind anyway."} Lynn had already told him everything she knew of Craig Garrison, who and what he was, so he knew there was nothing else to mine for clarity with her.

Still, it bothered him, enough he'd told Actor with more impatience and irritability than he'd let himself show before, "it's like I'm having amnesia and déjà vu all at the same time! Should that even be possible??!"

Actor had nodded in sympathy. "Actually, it sounds quite likely, Craig. Indeed, after having suffered amnesia, I would think any thread of a returning memory would be very much on the order of déjà vu." 

While that relieved Garrison's mind on one level, it still left him with far too many unanswered questions.

That last interview with the doctor certainly hadn't helped, that aloof, professional individual seeming quite exasperated with a patient who would not be content to let things take their natural course.

"From what the reports say, Lieutenant Garrison, it would appear you are doing quite well. Your superiors tell me you are performing your duties most capably, seem to be remembering quite a bit there, all that is necessary. Not that I have details, of course, but none of them seem concerned about any small fragments of memory that might still be missing. 

"I really shouldn't worry, you know. If you've remembered so much, are this close to being able to carry out your duties once again, I doubt what's left is of any real earth-shattering importance. It might come back, but I really wouldn't try and force the issue; it might do far more harm than good. As I said before, perhaps what memories you haven't recovered are simply not important enough to BE remembered, or perhaps even to your best interest NOT to be recovered."

Garrison gritted his teeth and left, thanking the doctor for his time. Not that he agreed with that recommendation, nor did he feel the doctor would be nearly so complacent if it was HIS life, HIS memory being affected. Frankly, Garrison couldn't see forcing the issue would be likely to do any more harm than that neverending push from inside, the feeling that he'd lost, or hopefully just misplaced, something that WAS of earth-shattering importance to Craig Garrison, no matter WHAT the doctor had proclaimed with such disdain. Well, it was the last time for that particular doctor anyway, this one being reassigned and a new one due to take over by the time for his next, hopefully, his last visit. 

{"Maybe I'll have better luck with the new one, though you'd think I could get this done on my own! It's not like a broken leg or a bad appendix! How difficult should it be to find myself, after all? I was the one who managed to get myself lost!"}

In the end, it was Sergeant Major Rawlins, after watching the young officer pace restlessly for most of a morning, after hearing Garrison fume and fuss about that last doctor's visit and his everbuilding frustration, who had very quietly suggested a possible solution to at least part of Garrison's problem. When asked his opinion, the non-com had reluctantly responded, though obviously not at all sure this was the right thing to be saying. Still, he'd been asked, directly, and knew he wouldn't have liked to have been in the position Garrison was finding himself in.

"I really couldn't say, sir; at least, I probably shouldn't say. I'm under strict orders, just like the men. But - - - " and Gil had hesitated a long moment before inhaling deeply and adding with a rush, "you might wish to 'ave a conversation with Miss O'Donnell, Lieutenant. I understand she's just back from wherever she was bound this time. The first cottage on the way into the village, if you don't remember. Ring the bell at the garden gate if it's locked. She doesn't usually allow strangers inside, but then, you're 'ardly a stranger, are you now?" 

The odd flush, the furtive look around to make sure he hadn't been overheard made all that very evocative, enough Garrison thought he might finally get some of the answers he needed. Orders be damned, he needed to know who Craig Garrison really was! Maybe this woman, whoever she was, (because he DIDN'T remember, at least not enough to know why she might hold a key to his problem) might open that stuck door that kept him from recovering his past elusive self.

Now, he sat in the small kitchen, leaning back in the wooden chair, toying with the remains of what had been a thick slice of homemade bread spread with freshly-churned butter and cherry preserves, sipping that chicory coffee that, even diluted with heavy cream, would have awakened Rip Van Winkle with a hearty jolt. 

Unfortunately, the coffee was doing nothing for his memory, though you would think what the redhead had told him would have sparked something. 

It hadn't, not really, not yet, not clear memories at least, although now his brain seemed to itch fiercely, a most uncomfortable sensation to say the least. His brain itched, his mouth felt dry, and there was an odd ache somewhere inside, though he couldn't quite tell the source or the exact location. Then that door nudged itself open, just a hair, then a hair more, and he sat frozen in place watching what tiptoed out.

{"Well, Garrison, you wanted SOME information, hoped for SOME reaction; you got it, no matter how useful or not it might be, nor how believable!"}

He puzzled over what she'd told him so far. Unlike the rest of the people around him, it seems she saw no benefit in 'letting him regain his memory in his own time'. In fact, she'd been quite blunt about her opinion of the whole concept. 

"If you were a weak man, or a fool, or one inclined to hasty or foolish actions, perhaps there would be some merit. But you are none of those things, and that being so, not only does it seem unnecessarily cruel to you, Craig, as well as everyone else, to leave you grasping at shadows, but rather fraught with the opportunity for causing a great deal of harm. As well tell a man walking through a mine field he'd be better off wearing hobbles, a blindfold, and cotton stuffed in his ears! 

That made sense; in fact, that was pretty much what had driven him to take this uncomfortable step of asking someone who was, as far as he knew, pretty much a stranger. {"No, not that; not if she's a fellow agent, not if we've sometimes worked together. Certainly not if what she's telling me is true. Still, this is a lot more personal a discussion than I'd ever expected!"}. 

Well, he HAD asked, every member of the team, Major Richards, Sergeant Major Rawlins, and everyone had sidestepped his questions, all supposedly on firm orders from the military doctor. But not this young woman, not Meghada O'Donnell. 

Now, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Oh, maybe (yes, surely), if true, all she'd told him so far, it explained a few odd things that had occurred, a few actions he'd taken (or almost taken) that he had been surprised by since his return. But what he was finding more surprising than her revelations was his reaction. 

He knew he should have been shocked, dismayed, or worse, but somehow he wasn't, not really. Surprised, yes, not quite sure what to do with the information, but nothing more daunting, it would seem. It was almost as if part of him already knew, was saying "well, yes, of course, Craig! It's about time you came round!"

{"Could it really be that I DO have such a personal relationship, one so outside the realm of likelihood? Well, one relationship plus what MIGHT be a second. But the whole being totally outside of anything the military, society, would ever countenance? Hell, the doctor was quite adamant about how 'spotless' was my reputation, how innocuous my dealings. But someone HAS to know, and she did say the rest of the team knows, accepts to varying degrees. And if Rawlins sent me here, he must know at least PART of the truth."}

And if all of what she said was true -

"Then, it would seem to me," he offered hesitantly, "that you should pretty much hate me. Wouldn't that be called 'poaching', as I think the local term would be, and isn't that pretty much grounds for, at the very least, some very harsh thoughts?" 

That brought a sympathetic smile to the woman's face. "No, not poaching. You've stolen nothing from me, Craig, since what I had before I still have, even sweetened in the bargain. No, no harsh thoughts, and I don't hate you. Sorry about that," and there was a hint of teasing on her face now, reassuring him he was NOT part of a highly-fraught and seething melodrama just waiting to explode.

He frowned, not sure she should be taking this so lightly; he surely didn't.

"And I KNOW I should hate YOU," he ground out. "It would seem you're my 'competition', so to speak, and a little healthy hatred seems appropriate under those circumstances."

That got an actual grin, a wry one, to be sure, but a grin nevertheless.

"And do you, do you think?" she asked with a note of true curiosity. "I've never thought that to be the case; it has never seemed so. But you do run an excellent con, after all. Do tell me, if that's the case, and we'll see what we can do to alleviate that," she said encouragingly. "There's no need, you know."

He snapped impatiently, "I DON'T know! That's the problem! I don't SEEM to, but shouldn't I?? Do you have any idea how frustrating that is??! All of this and my not KNOWING?!"

"I can only imagine," she offered, shaking her head in what appeared to be very real sympathy.

He was finding that quiet, rather detached attitude not only frustrating but downright annoying. If what she'd said, implied, was true, then . . .

He surged to his feet, grabbing her by the shoulders and drew her into a fierce kiss, testing the boundaries. She didn't pull away, kissed him back, but gently; there was certainly no passion in her response. 

He let her go as soon as he realized that, flushing painfully.

{"Well, fair enough,"} he though ruefully, {"there wasn't much real passion in what I was offering her either, more like a forced pretense of lust mixed with annoyance and maybe more than a little defiance, a refusal to accept what she's told me."}

He knew he'd felt more tenderness, more genuine attraction when he'd caught himself watching the pickpocket assigned to his team, during his efforts in trying to reconnect with the men he'd supposedly worked so closely with. That fit uncomfortably well with all she'd told him now.

She touched his face, the look of sympathetic understanding growing by the second. 

"No, no hatred. No passion either, not as you were imagining, Craig. There IS passion, of course. A great deal of it, actually, quite enough to go around; just not between you and me. Between the two of us, there is more what I would call a 'comfortable ease', perhaps. Though it can turn to something akin to passion, under the right influence, in the right sphere."

He groaned in utter frustration, moving to the sitting room and threw himself into one of the big arm chairs, leaned his head back and gave her a glare he only halfway meant. 

"Okay, I'll stop guessing. Just tell me - the whole complicated story, not leaving anything out. Maybe after you pour me a drink, though? I have a feeling I'm going to need it."

Quite awhile later Goniff cautiously stuck his head in through the kitchen door. 

"Ei, 'Gaida. Is . . ." He hesitated. If Craig WAS there, it wouldn't be smart to be calling him by his first name, not if that ruddy doctor was right, though Goniff was not all that sure the man was. Yes, that was supposed to be the doctor's job, but it didn't feel right, leaving Craig in the dark like that. 

Well, maybe about some things, yes, at least until later, when hopefully he would have remembered more. Goniff had no intention of adding another layer of confusion, not when it seemed Garrison had retreated so far. It had made the Englishman a little uneasy, that lecture they'd all gotten, about 'some things are best not remembered; his own mind will know best. Don't press.' 

Well, knowing all Craig had gone through after having been captured, Goniff could understand wanting to forget that, not have anyone remind him. That Craig would want, would NEED to forget more, forget the Cottage, forget a lot else for awhile, that hurt, but if that was what was needed, Goniff had no intention of pressing. He just wished he could know for sure which way was best.

A cheery summons took him in through the door, finding Meghada seated in one big arm chair, Garrison in another, sharing a drink. 

Goniff forced an equally cheery smile onto his face, that raised-brow, wide-eyed and earnest look he'd perfected with such care over such a long span of years. 

"Was looking for you, Lieutenant. Sergeant Major said you might be 'ere; that I should let you know the pouch arrived, but that there was nothing that couldn't wait til tomorrow if you'd prefer to wait til then. Got some new nonsense inside for you, I expect - some new blow em up bit of fun, pull another rabbit out of your 'at sort of a job. This time, though, we're going along, and don't think to tell us otherwise. Just look w'at 'appens w'en you go off on your lonesome . . . "

He was chattering like an idiot and he knew it, but couldn't seem to stop. This just felt so blasted unreal, to see Craig sitting there looking at him, and knowing Craig wasn't really seeing HIM, only seeing 'Goniff the pickpocket'. So, Meghada didn't look overly worried, sort of amused if anything, but he'd not relax til he was more certain of which way the wind was blowing.

Garrison had been startled at the knock at the door, so deep in thought was he at all Meghada had shared. Startled just as much by the sudden jack-in-the-box appearance of his pickpocket, that quick outpouring of cheerful prattle, that vague, innocent, even clueless expression, an expression that made Garrison want to snort in sheer disbelief. 

{"Yeah, right! Like I'm gonna buy THAT act, Goniff! I KNOW you, remember, I know . . . "}

Then it was as if a light had switched on in a darkened part of himself, surety replacing the prior questioning of what Meghada had shared. That jammed door swung open and knowledge flooded through his mind, through every part of his soul, and with that knowledge, an incredulous rush of emotions at what he'd now remembered, what he had now regained.

A slow welcoming smile filled his face, his eyes as he looked into those familiar blue eyes watching him so carefully, so cautiously. 

He remembered, finally, that important piece that had been missing. He remembered that in the midst of planning a con on the Germans, in the process of blowing up an ammo dump or kidnapping a stray general, training the team and watching them develop - those weren't the only places he felt alive. HERE he felt alive; felt alive, felt warmth and contentment and a soul-deep sense of belonging. Here was that place he had been starting to wonder whether it even existed. Here was 'home'; THEY were 'home'. How could he have ever forgotten that??!

Well, it was time to remember, to let them, especially to let Goniff know he remembered.

"Hello, Goniff. I'm home again, finally. Sorry it took so long. Did you miss me?" he asked with a chuckle, enjoying the Englishman's shock at the question, his stunned realization of what that really meant.

A wave of sheer relief came over Goniff as he saw, once again, the man he knew and loved waiting in those green eyes. 

"Ruddy "ELL, Craig!!! It's about ruddy TIME!!" and a burst of warm shared laughter filled the cottage.

Later, sharing a drink, Garrison admitted, a note of shyness in his voice, hesitation apparent in his face, "I remember SOME, enough to know what we have here between us, that it's good. Enough to value what we have. But I don't remember everything, specifics, I mean. It may take some time, but I'm hoping that will all come back to me. I'd hate to lose the good memories I know we've shared." 

If he was expecting disappointment from his pickpocket at that admission, that didn't happen. Instead, he got a mini-philosophy lesson from the suddenly serious man leaning back contemplating the bourbon in his glass, something that didn't seem to phase Meghada in the least but was a shock to Garrison. From Actor he could have expected this, but from Goniff? It seems there really WAS a lot to remember about this surprising man. {"A lot to remember, probably a lot more still to learn,"} he admitted ruefully.

"Now, 'eraclitus, "E said 'no man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and 'e's not the same man, cause they both are constantly changing', or something like that. Maybe that's true," Goiff said with a deeply thoughtful air. "Then again, just who was it, Nietzche maybe, w'at said something like 'the advantage of 'aving a bad memory' - bad as in not remembering things, I mean - 'is that you get to enjoy several times over the same good things for the first time'. Well, we'll just 'ave to recreate some of those good things, Craig, the good memories, won't we? Imagine they'll be just as good second time around as the first, maybe even better, w'at with all three of us still changing with experience. We can do our best, in any case. That's not something too many get to 'ave, you know, a second time at 'aving the good first times." 

That serious look turned to something incredibly warm and teasing as he added, "wonder w'ere to start, now. Bet 'Gaida 'as some of that raspberry syrup in the cupboard, or if not, I know I saw the treacle bottle in there."

Goniff laughed with sheer delight at the look of wary apprehension on Garrison's face, and then offered reassuringly, "of course, probably getting way a'ead of ourselves with either of those. Best to start with maybe just a nice bit of free time at 'ome, ei? Maybe put a record on the player, do a run on the kitchen for a little snack, 'ave a drink, maybe? A little conversation. Then a nice little nap? Now, that's something you don't want to go forgetting, you know. Just w'at do you remember of 'Gaida's nice big warm bed? Soft pillows, plenty of warm blankets, lots of room. 'Ad it made special, she did, just so we wouldn't be crowded, could sleep comfortable and everything. Let's just lean back, take our time, see w'at memories we can bring around again, maybe make a few new ones even."

And if Craig didn't remember, right then, he found things coming back to him far quicker than he would have anticipated. And he found out exactly what Meghada had meant by passion and a comfortable ease, and the different aspects those could take under the right circumstances, as well as the meaning of those puzzling dreams of his. 

He did remember to ask, though, before drifting off to sleep, "does Actor know you go around quoting Nietzche and Heraclitus in your spare time, Goniff?", stifling a yawn mid-sentence.

That got him a snort of drowsy amusement from that ashen head buried deep in the pillows, and a soft laugh from Meghada even as she cautioned him as to the inadvisability of sharing that knowledge with the conman.

"No, and you'd best not tell him, Craig. His head would likely explode, or else he'd drag you to the car and race you back to London in a panic, telling the doctor that you've not only NOT regained your proper memory but have now begun to have delusions and hallucinations!"

Garrison got a clean bill of health and a release to return to full duty, just in time to head out on a new mission. And that was a good thing for everyone, since sending his crew out with someone else? Especially when that new job involved Paris, a bank, a whole vault full of safety deposit boxes, AND a fashion show that was supposed to be loaded with not only lovely models but a goodly number of female attendees with scads of expensive jewelry? Garrison would have been the first to admit that was NOT such a good idea!

His last trip to that new doctor had been a satisfactory one on both sides. 

Dr. Greerson was a little surprised to find the lieutenant waiting for him when he got to his office. Yes, Lieutenant Garrison WAS his first appointment of the day, but his clients rarely showed up an hour early! Obviously the young officer was impatient to get back to full duty, and Greerson was hopeful he'd be able to release the man and get him off the client rolls and make room for someone else in need of his services. 

If Garrison had made a little more progress and showed no new symptoms from that accumulation of injuries, the doctor was fully intending to do just that. Of course, he was inclined to do so even if Garrison wasn't a hundred percent. This was his first (and possibly last) interview with the man, but from what the previous attending physician had recorded, this Lieutenant Garrison was inclined to be both stubborn and difficult, wanting, indeed demanding, what just might be an impossibility - a full return to not only peak condition, but perhaps a return to a condition that had never existed in the first place! 

{"The things some people expect from a physician!"}

Greerson was relieved to find the Lieutenant in fine fettle, almost bouncing in his eagerness to get back to work, quick to assure him all was well. In fact, the doctor was impressed at the bland easy assurances a smiling Garrison had given him.

"Yes, it seems everyone was right. Any important connections I've remembered. And anything I haven't remembered, I'll let that sort itself out however it will. In any case, that's not a total loss. I still have the opportunity for making new memories, don't I? All things considered, I think that's the best I could really ask for." 

That smile was all confidence and self-assurance, the doctor noted during the extensive examination, the probing conversation that was involved in obtaining that release.

One final question, again that smile of total self-confidence. "Yes, doctor, I'm sure. Everything's back to normal. Couldn't be better. Well, except for the war and all, but other than that . . ."

Greerson nodded, signing off on the release papers. As he watched Garrison leave, he had to wonder, though, about the future of his short-term patient. The young officer SEEMED totally content with himself, confident in his choices, and hopeful for the future. 

Still, the doctor had a tinge of doubt. After all, he HAD spent some time with the young man's file, along with the prior doctor's notes. He could only hope that interview had been honest, that Garrison WAS fully recovered, was fully himself once again. It had certainly seemed so, though Dr. Greerson wouldn't have been eager for such a straitened path for himself.

"If nothing else, he seems eager to return to the fray," he remarked, watching the lieutenant from the window, watching him get into a car with several other men. "He wouldn't discuss any further return of personal memories, so perhaps he discovered and has become reconciled to there being none of any importance. In a sense, it's a little worrisome - that he IS that reconciled, that content with such a limited sphere. Shame, really, at his age, when all you have is your career. Being dedicated is one thing, but one CAN carry it to extremes when one avoids all other activities, the more personal connections; one misses out on so much. 

"Oh well, he has to make his own choices, of course," Greerson shrugged, "and some men just don't have the emotional capacity to make those oh-so-important personal connections, develop strong personal relationships like some others can."

Then he turned back to his desk, turned his mind to his next patient of the day. He'd be glad for the day to be over, when once again he could head out to visit a certain lovely young woman he was becoming quite fond of. HE, at least, unlike Lieutenant Garrison, knew life was for the living, and didn't intend to bypass the more pleasant parts, no matter how dedicated he was to his career.

And in the car below, as Chief took off at a goodly clip, Garrison continued with that lecture he'd been working on previously.

"Yes, I know it's Paris. I know it's a bank job and a high-society event with, as Casino puts it so elegantly, "loads of dames running around in their skivvies", and all the rest. Yes, I know it's supposed to be a 'walk in the park' and we've got some downtime before the exit opens up. But my orders stand. No women, Actor. I don't care if they are beautiful or titled or rich as Croesus. Casino, same goes for you, only let's just make it ANY women, okay? I know you're open to more eclectic choices than Actor, but some of your choices are just as dangerous! Chief, you're a mute, remember; no slip-ups like in Geneva, even if someone DOES provoke you or stomp on your foot! And as for you, Goniff - I point, you fetch, understand? That's IT! No independent shopping for trinkets."

"Yeah, yeah, Warden, you already told us all that," Casino groused, with Actor adding a smooth, "of course, Craig. I assure you we will be all business."

Chief just nodded once in the rearview mirror, meeting Garrison's eyes. Well, he was the least of Garrison's worries, when it came right down to it.

Goniff looked at Garrison, that innocent and oh-so-earnest look not fooling Garrison one little bit. He wasn't much fooled by that eager protestation of "wouldn't dream of it, Lieutenant, I swear! Strictly business, just like Actor said!" either.

Garrison looked at each of them with a highly-skeptical eye. "Uh huh. Well, let's keep it that way, shall we, gentlemen?"

Yes, just like he'd told the doctor - everything was back to normal. And frankly, except for that damned war, he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. 

Glancing over at his pickpocket sitting on the opposite side of the car, getting an innocent look and earnest smile in return, that little twist of Goniff's mouth indicating that cocky smirk was just fighting to take over, Garrison smiled to himself. {"No other way at all!"}


End file.
